Becky’s gaze in the glass.
‘It’s too bad of the duke to cancel this escapade.’ Becky bit into her toast with an irritated little sigh. ‘He should allow me my fee. I want a new hat.’ Becky watched Luke’s broad back as he shrugged into his tailcoat.
‘He didn’t cancel it. I did. And I’ll give you some spending cash, sweet, don’t worry.’ He wasn’t the only mercenary in the room, Luke realised, suppressing laughter in his throat. But he preferred mistresses who were content with sensual satisfaction plus a generous allowance that allowed them to shop freely, without demanding more of his time and freedom than he was prepared to give. Unfortunately, Becky had been pushing the boundaries of her role. Their last few visits to the opera had seen her becoming tediously jealous, watching his movements around other women. He knew it was time to end their relationship and would do so when he returned to town. He blamed himself, in part, for her stalking him. He’d told her his destination, if nothing else about what business was taking him to the West Country. But he’d never imagined that she’d have the outrageous cheek to come and check up on him.
‘Will you return to Eaton Square soon?’ Becky knew Luke was still reining in his anger over her unexpected appearance, so sounded quite meek.
She had never set foot inside Luke’s Mayfair mansion. As his mistress she’d never be invited to do so and to pay an impromptu visit would be tantamount to professional suicide. No distinguished fellow would pursue a liaison with a courtesan who proved to be an embarrassment to him and his family. Of course, Becky was aware that Luke had few living relatives to upset. He was an only child and his paternal grandfather had outlived both of his parents, but that was the extent of Becky’s knowledge of her lover’s history. And she knew better than to chivvy for more details of his past.
Becky liked a challenge and had boasted to her friends that she could hook the ‘soldier of fortune’ as he was nicknamed. And she had. He’d taken her under his protection and set her up in Marylebone almost five months ago. She’d no wish to see their affair come to an end. Luke Wolfson’s rakish reputation and his gypsy-dark good looks were irresistible to Becky. But she was a seasoned paramour and recognised the signs of a man preparing to bed hop. She’d noticed him responding to a flirtatious redhead at Vauxhall in that quietly amused way of his. But Becky wasn’t too bothered about her, or any demi-rep who had a yen for Luke Wolfson. It was another, serious, rival who had her rattled.
‘The London Season will soon be underway...’ Becky tried another tack to discover Luke’s plans as he’d grimaced his indecision in answer to her earlier question.
‘What of it?’ Luke asked, turning from the mirror.
‘Will you stay permanently in town for the Season?’ Luke had a vast acreage in Essex. Becky guessed he had a chère amie in the countryside to keep him company on his long absences from her bed. But a fat-ankled milkmaid didn’t bother her, either.
‘Perhaps... Why do you ask?’
‘Harriet Ponting has arrived in town with her mother.’
‘And?’ Luke’s expression remained impassive as he straightened his shirt cuffs.
‘Oh, you know what’s expected of you!’ Becky cried, covering her pretty features with her palms. ‘Her mama has been spreading rumours for ages that you are ready to pay court again to her eldest daughter.’
‘Is that right?’ Luke murmured distantly, with an expression that Becky, peeking behind her fingers at him, recognised. He was letting her know that any marriage plans he had were none of her concern and he was displeased that she’d raised the topic.
‘I’m going to settle the shot... Pack your things, sweet, we’re leaving...’
Becky watched him exit the room, a sulky twist to her lips. In her opinion it was her concern. She might not be genteel, like Harriet, but she had plenty to offer a gentleman as his wife. Becky wanted to join the number of other ambitious courtesans who had dragged themselves up by their bootstraps to marry rich and influential men and bear them legitimate heirs. Harriet Ponting had already turned Luke down once and didn’t deserve another chance at being Luke’s wife, Becky thought.
* * *
‘Oh, it’s too much to bear!’
‘Now, now, calm yourself, my dear,’ Peter Jackson soothed his wife. He drew her closer to him beneath the tree so they might get some better shelter from the driving rain.
Fiona had huddled with the Beresford sisters beneath the dripping skeleton of another oak, but as a loud clap of thunder sounded she glanced up warily, through rain-clumped lashes, at groaning overhead branches.
‘Perhaps we might be safer out in the open,’ Fiona said, pulling the hood of her cloak further forward to protect her face.
‘But we will look like drowned rats,’ Ruth and Valerie Beresford chorused, shrinking back to the bole of the tree.
‘Better that than get struck by lightning,’ Fiona pointed out.
She suddenly made a dash towards the coach, which was tilting precariously to one side. The driver and groom were making a valiant attempt to repair the broken front axle, while hampered by the violent elements. The storm had seemed to spring up from nowhere just as they hit a particularly isolated stretch of road. Toby Williams put down his hammer as Fiona stopped by his side. Wearily the coach driver pushed to his feet and patted at the nearest horse, murmuring comfortingly to the sodden beast. The team had bowed their heads beneath an onslaught that was sending rivulets of water dripping down their flanks and manes.
‘It’s no use, miss, I’ll have to return to the Fallow Buck and get help. It’s beyond my skill to get this accursed thing again up and running.’ The driver indicated his young apprentice. ‘Bert here will stay by you all. He can take my blunderbuss for protection. I think you will all be safe enough in the coach—it’s stuck firm in the mud so shouldn’t tip over. You can’t remain out in the open or you’ll catch your deaths—’
‘Do you think Bert might need the blunderbuss?’ Fiona interrupted, suppressing her alarm. The lad had not looked too happy on hearing he was about to be abandoned by his senior and put in charge of protecting the coach’s drenched, vexed passengers. Never had Fiona felt quite so out of her depth amongst these country folk and the eerie alien environment they inhabited. She’d only rarely in her life travelled outside London and its bustling, clamorous streets. Then it had been to stay with friends who lived in a quaint cottage in a Hertfordshire village. She wondered if in these parts ferocious animals living in the woods might prey on them, so asked the driver though fearful of his answer.
‘Well...you never know, better to be safe than sorry,’ Toby Williams prevaricated. He knew very well that any predatory vermin were human, not animal. The Collins gang infested the area from Kent to Cornwall, all along the coast. That group of marauding criminals would think it their lucky day if they stumbled across a party of defenceless people. Jeremiah Collins would relieve them all of their valuables, and the ladies of their virtue, if what Toby had heard about the vile blackguard was accurate.
What really worried Toby though was that his apprentice, Bert, might be relieved of his life. The lad was only eighteen, but already had a wife and child relying on him. Collins was suspected of murdering a Revenue Man in Rye, but he was a wily individual and had been on the run, keeping one step ahead of the law for more than a year.
It was said that Jem Collins felt he had nothing to lose. He knew the noose awaited him
